Like the majority of his countrymen, Mr Rowden was ready to believe anything he heard of social conditions in the States, but one point required explanation.
“You said the child had golden hair.”
“Yes, his mother’s hair was red,” sighed Clifford.
Gethryn, glancing round, saw the Englishman’s jaw drop, as he said, “How extraordinary!” Then he began to smile as if suspecting a joke. But Clifford’s eye met his in gentle rebuke.
“C’est l’heure! Rest!” Down jumped the model. The men leaned back noisily. Clifford rose, bowed gravely to the Englishman, and stepped across the taborets to join his friends.
Gethryn was cleaning his brushes with turpentine and black soap.
“Going home, Rex?” inquired Clifford, picking up a brush and sending a fine spray of turpentine over Elliott, who promptly returned the attention.
“Quit that,” growled Gethryn, “don’t ruin those brushes.”
“What’s the nouveau like, Clifford?” asked Elliott. “We heard you instructing him a little. He seems to have the true Englishman’s sense of humor.”
“Oh, he’s not a bad sort,” said Clifford. “Come and be introduced. I’m half ashamed of myself for guying him, for he’s really a very decent, plucky fellow, a bit stiff and pig-headed, as many of ’em are at first, and as for humor, I suppose they know their own kind, but they do get a little confused between fact and fancy when they converse with us.”